


A Marriage of Hearts

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Add oakum and you're golden, Ageing, All you have to do is use wood, Banter, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Elf/Human Relationship(s), F/M, Failure to Communicate, Humor, I'm just saying, If the Valar let Tuor be immortal because he was with an elf then WHY NOT GIMLI TOO, M/M, The Valar, Wood floats doesn't it?, Yeah just slap some wood together in there, fake married, fic by request, shipbuilding's got to be easy, silver fox fic, the straight road, tropes: dwarf worship, tropes: fake married, tropes: silver fox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:39:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas comes up with A Cunning Plan to get everything he wants from life-- and from what lies beyond.  (Though he may have more difficulty than he anticipated in building his ship.)</p><p>Written for Determamfidd, who asked for fake married and dwarf worship.  I also gave her silver fox Gimli.  :-)</p><p>With thanks to Irrealia, for second-reading and suggestions that helped enormously with the ending!</p><p>I do NOT thank Dragon Dictation software for the advent of Regulus and Emily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Marriage of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts).



As Legolas rode along the glacial valley toward Helm’s Deep, an unaccustomed disquiet tormented him, making him fidget until his horse tossed its head and whinnied, reproaching him for his tension. Legolas patted its neck, murmuring an apology, and slipped off to walk, hoping to spend some of his energy before arriving.

The turf was soft with mud, the clay of boulders long ground down to soil, but he went lightly and did not sink. He did not sing, either, murmuring to himself instead, rehearsing words he had long planned. The horse danced in disgust, not allowing itself to be touched.

The walk did not delay him long enough. Soon he reached the keep and was swiftly admitted, well-known to the guards, men and dwarves alike. 

“A message from Lord Aragorn?” one man inquired, jovial, but Legolas shook his head. 

“Personal business.” Legolas smiled. It was a mark of distinction that they questioned him no further, not even the dwarves, who knew enough to leave his horse with the men of Rohan and take him swiftly through the finely-tooled gates and down through the shining caverns to the king’s audience chamber. There Gimli sat in something rather less than state, muttering to himself over papers thick with runes.

“If they will not give the cattle we negotiated for, we will reduce the lamps we ship by an equal measure,” he grumbled to a scribe. “See to it.” He shoved the papers away and rose, brightening. 

“Legolas!” He stepped forward, beaming. Legolas smiled on him, aware as always of the new, small reminders of his friend’s mortality. Gimli was still hale, but the threads of silver in his beard and hair were now more numerous than the auburn, and he moved well, but not quite as swiftly as he once had. 

That, in part, drove Legolas upon this errand; not long since he had marked the subtle changes in his friend, and they had begun to prey upon his mind.

“What news have you? Has the laddie sent you to me?” 

Legolas laughed softly. “King Elessar is well, or he was when last I heard. He has not sent me. I came for reasons of my own.”

“Then let us discuss them over food. We’ve laid in several casks of the Dorwinion you like, and there is enough green stuff on hand to satisfy a dozen of your kind for a week,” Gimli teased.

“May I have more to eat than meat and potatoes then?” Legolas could not help but smile. “It is a long while since I first sneaked wild onions into your stewing pot.”

“And taught me a well-deserved lesson. My sister still swears by them, and keeps her jealous secret.” Gimli huffed a laugh. “Let us go, elf.”

Legolas went, and delayed discussing his purpose until the meal had been eaten and Gimli had discovered the bottom of several mugs of good ale. Legolas himself finished more than a bottle of good Dorwinion.

“You set a fine table, my friend,” he sighed at last and pushed away his empty cup. “And yet I wonder that you have not taken a bride. Will you not sire an heir?”

“And I will answer as I always do: no, and I can provide for the succession easily enough. There are several promising young lads among my cousins.” Gimli turned up the bottom of his cup, swallowing noisily. “I will open another bottle for you, elf.”

“No,” Legolas put his hand over the rim of his cup, polite. “I must speak with you, and my head should be clear.”

Hearing that, Gimli did not rise to refill his own mug, setting it aside purposefully. 

“Speak, then, elf.”

Legolas hesitated, unsure even now where he might begin.

“The sea-longing weighs on my mind, _mellon nín_.” He confessed, gazing down at his hands, which wanted to twine and wring themselves. “I must answer it ere long. I have stayed here for the sake of my friends, but Aragorn ages. He will soon pass from this world, and then,” Legolas swallowed hard.

“Then my turn will come,” Gimli said softly.

“Yes.” Legolas felt his eyes sting, and the tabletop blurred before them. Perhaps he had drunk too much wine. “Gimli… when Aragorn passes, before you follow him, I would have you venture the straight road with me.” He blinked back the moisture with an effort. “There you will once again see the Lady Galadriel.”

Her name filled him with bittersweet envy: the Lady of Lothlorien, perhaps the only being he had ever known who possessed the power to move Gimli to love. 

The dwarf arose and stepped thoughtfully across to the hearth, putting a log on the fire. Long inured to the heat of molten metal and glass, he set the fresh log carefully atop the coals with no fear of being burned, and ensured it was well-lodged before turning. 

“That would be a remarkable thing.” He tilted his head, studying Legolas with sharp eyes. “Yet mortals may not go to the Undying Lands. For a dwarf to take ship with you… we would sail over the curve of the world and lose ourselves to drought and starvation in the uncharted sea.”

“Exceptions have been made.” Legolas thought of Tuor, and of their own friend Frodo and his uncle Bilbo, who had passed out of Middle Earth into Aman with Gandalf and Galadriel. “But we might move to strengthen our position, if you have no objection to that. And since you have no spouse, perhaps you may not reject my thought out of hand.” His heart raced as Gimli’s eyes narrowed, regarding him.

“We might wed,” Legolas tried to make the words careless. “Since you are not inclined to take a wife among your people. It would not have to be more than a marriage in name, of course,” he added in haste. “But it would be a mark in your favor. Tuor was wed to an elf, Idril Celebrindal, and by virtue of that bond, he accompanied her to the Blessed Realm after the fall of Gondolin. Legend holds he was accepted as one of elven-kind, and granted the life of the Eldar.” _Varda send it so for you, my friend!_

Gimli rummaged slowly in a drawer. He drew out his pipe and a pouch of weed, then scraped ash out of the bowl, tapping the mess into the fire, and packed the pipe with care, moving slowly. Legolas knew he did so to give himself time to think; it was a habit of Gimli’s from old. Nevertheless he thought he might go mad as he sat there, feigning calm; he wished he had accepted wine. It would have given him something to do with his hands, which betrayed him with their fidgeting. 

“I would like to see the Lady again.” Gimli lit the pipe and drew a lungful of smoke, exhaling it in a thin stream. “There is temptation also in the notion of being the first dwarf to set foot in your Blessed Realm, I confess.”

 _But no temptation in the idea of wedding me._ Legolas sat very still. He had not expected more. 

“Where will we find a ship?”

“I will build one for us.” Hope began to swell in Legolas as he heard the word ‘we,’ and knew Gimli might agree to his plan. 

“Just that simply?” Gimli chortled. “Shipmaking seems a rather more challenging craft than that, but if you can build one that does not sink when set upon the water, I will join you in it when the time comes.” He stared into the bowl of his pipe. “Not before the king passes, I think. But then.”

“And the other?” Legolas held his breath.

“Aye. It will amuse me to see your father’s face when he learns of it, if naught else.” 

Legolas arose and went to fetch another bottle of wine, careful not to let the neck chatter against the rim of his glass. “I will make arrangements.”

“Set the wedding on neutral ground,” Gimli recommended. “Perhaps in the white city. None of our kin would dare to raise weapons to one another in the king’s hall.”

“Lady Arwen will be pleased to lend a hand with plans and preparations,” Legolas nodded. She had long known his secret. “But it may be a rather larger affair than we would wish.”

“People like a spectacle,” Gimli shrugged. “We will be a nine days’ wonder for flapping tongues no matter how quietly we wed. We may as well act with pride.”

*****

The wedding of the lords of Aglarond and Ithilien drew an even larger crowd than that of Aragorn and Arwen, for there was more time to plan and prepare, and to make journeys from faraway lands. To accommodate all the guests, Aragorn set the simple ceremony upon the very stair where he had been crowned.

It seemed no time at all passed before Legolas and Gimli donned the fine raiment prepared for them and went out to stand before the king, gazing up at the peak of Mindolluin as they waited for their friend and lord to take his place so he might officiate over the ceremony.

Aragorn’s hair was now as white as snow, and he walked with the aid of a staff, taking short and careful steps, but his hands were firm as he set his palms on his friends’ foreheads to bless their union, and his crown shone brightly in the sun. 

Legolas answered his smile honestly, wondering what Aragorn truly thought of this moment, but he had been given no chance to ask; he and Gimli had been together constantly since their arrival, and the time for private talk with Aragorn, when he might have confessed his misgivings, had never come.

Legolas straightened his spine and held Gimli’s hand in his as they recited their vows together, their voices clear and unafraid.

Many watched them closely, for their kin had come from as far as the western shores of Middle Earth, even from Mithlond and the Ered Luin, amazed to see an elf wed a dwarf. 

If there were those who scowled on the union (Legolas’s father most definitely numbered among them; his face could have curdled milk still in the cow), there were also those who rejoiced with whole hearts. They joined the queen in clapping as the new couple descended, crowns of spring blossom in their hair and new rings of gold chased with mithril set on their fingers to mark the joining. 

Gimli strode along with calm steadiness, glancing about and greeting particular friends among the press. The sun caught in the thick stripes of white that dominated his hair, dazzling Legolas with the purity of its glow. Flowers were thrown and crushed underfoot as the procession made their way into the city, where a day of holiday allowed all who wished to come out into the streets and join the festivities. 

“Well, elf. That is done. Will your Valar honor our arrangement now?” Gimli seemed jovial enough, laughing and waving to every dwarf he saw.

“I believe it is so,” Legolas answered, though he had only hope to sustain him.

Finishing the procession, they went into the palace, where Aragorn and Arwen toasted their good health. Legolas knew Arwen’s eyes rested on him with concern, but he did not acknowledge her gaze. They had spoken of his fears as they planned this moment, and could do little now to amend them. Much depended on Gimli—and yet more on the Valar. 

At least Legolas did not expect to lose Gimli’s friendship; the dwarf had been steadfast and matter-of-fact throughout the long months of preparation, with a pragmatism and lack of embarrassment that Legolas had embraced with great relief. But now the thing was done, it remained to be seen what might follow.

“My friend,” Arwen set her hand on Gimli’s and smiled on him gently. “You are brave indeed to wed an elf. I know my husband has at times found it very taxing to have such a young and lusty lover in his bed now that he grows weary of his years.”

Both Aragorn and Legolas flushed, staring at her in purest mortification, but Gimli threw his head back and chortled. “I am not yet so old I cannot give my husband a proper seeing-to on his wedding night, my lady!”

Arwen smiled then at Legolas, who felt his cheeks go crimson and could not answer. Gimli laid a hand on his thigh and gave it a comforting squeeze, rather higher than Legolas expected; he found himself gasping, trying to draw breath into a chest that suddenly would not hold enough. 

“We keep them from one another, my queen, and they have waited long,” Aragorn winked at her, and returned his gaze to Legolas and Gimli. “I have much to prove to my wife this night, it seems, so we will leave you now!” 

They arose and strode away, seeming dignified in their slow progress, and only an unkind eye would have noted that Aragorn leaned upon the hand of Arwen rather than walking equally, as he once had.

Legolas found his lips dry, and tried to moisten them before he spoke.

“Will you see to me, then, husband, as you promised?” His heart pounded so hard he could scarcely think. 

Gimli eyed him sharply, surprised. “Aye, if you are agreeable to it.” He humphed to himself. “It will do much to help convince your Valar, I am sure.”

“I did not like to say as much, but it is so,” Legolas agreed, feeling so light-headed he feared he might faint. 

“Well, then.” Gimli finished his mug and set it down with a thump. “Let’s be going.”

Legolas followed Gimli back to their sumptuous suite, watching the dwarf with amazement. As always, he seemed perfectly oblivious to discomfort or self-consciousness, acting as if this matter were all much the same as tracking game or slaying orcs. 

Legolas flushed as they reached the door and Gimli banged it open with confidence, stepping inside and immediately beginning to toss away armor, belts, even his boots. 

He shrugged to himself and followed suit rather more neatly, then sat on the edge of the bed and shrugged out of his over-tunic, draping it over the back of a chair.

Gimli sighed, stretching his shoulders—the soft sound drawing Legolas’s eyes. He swallowed hard. Gimli had shed his shirt, and his shoulders were broad and hard-muscled. Only the silver in his hair and the faintest looseness of skin hinted at his age; he might have been the very dwarf Legolas had met in Rivendell before the War of the Ring. 

Gimli unraveled his braids as Legolas stared, fluffing the hair with one hand and running his fingers through the strands near his scalp, sighing with pleasure. “Bloody heavy wedding clasps,” he muttered, and set them on the table. A fire had been lit in the hearth, and it cast a ruddy glow over Gimli as he re-wove his braids for sleeping, a single long tail down the back and two wide braids in his beard that he united into one a few inches beneath his chin. 

“You stare as if you had never seen a dwarf before,” he commented, and Legolas flushed. 

“I have not seen a dwarf so far unclothed,” he confessed. “You are a modest people.” He drew off his own white tunic and laid it over his leathers, aware that elves also might be termed modest by the standards of races such as men. 

“No use for modesty now,” Gimli chuckled and scooped up his gear, folding it and setting the pile in a convenient chair. He pulled out his pipe and pouch, setting them on the top, and came to Legolas, moving to stand between his knees. 

His chest hair was nearly pure white, and Legolas had to stop himself from reaching to touch it. His eyes wandered over Gimli’s broad chest and muscle-padded ribs. His belly was faintly soft, the only softness Legolas could see about him, and he rested his hand there, over the slight curve. That too was new; Gimli's life now was easier than it once had been, and more prosperous.

Gimli let himself be examined, smiling slightly, then put his hand behind Legolas’s head. Tilting it up slightly, he kissed him.

Legolas meant to be silent, but could not stifle a moan. Gimli knew what he was doing, his lips somehow hard and soft at once, nudging Legolas’s mouth open so his tongue could sweep in. 

He lost himself in sweetness, meeting the liquid heat of that tongue with his own, feeling hot skin and crisp hair under his hands as they wandered until they rested on Gimli’s shoulders, drawing him closer until his broad thighs rested against Legolas’s.

“Taller than you for once,” Gimli rumbled against his mouth. “I like this, elf.” 

Legolas liked it too; and he caught Gimli’s mouth again to prove it, kissing him hotly if awkwardly, inexperienced but eager to learn.

Gimli withdrew after a long moment and drew a long, deep breath, his chest rising and falling deeply, before he managed a slightly shaky chuckle. “I want a pipe, I think, before bed. And you will want to sing to the stars, if I know you!” 

Legolas thought he could have bypassed that ritual for once, but he knew how irritable Gimli became if he did not have his smoke, so he let the dwarf withdraw, then followed him onto the balcony. 

Gimli made himself comfortable on a chair and Legolas hesitated, then settled at his feet. Gimli parted his thighs to let Legolas lean against him, and was kind enough to turn his head aside to smoke. Legolas hummed to himself softly, finding calm reassurance in the familiar sparkling glory of the heavens. 

“Ought to have kissed you long ago. I would have, if I’d known you wanted to.” Gimli cleared his throat, gruff. 

“Is it a custom among dwarves for friends to become lovers?” Legolas asked, timid. That would explain why Gimli was so relaxed and easy with the change. Yet if friendship was all he might have, Legolas was glad wedding Gimli had not damaged theirs. 

“Aye.” Gimli released a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. “Especially males, if they are shieldbrothers. There are not enough dwarf females to go around. That is not so for elves, I think.”

“It is the custom of elves to wed one lover,” Legolas shrugged. “Usually at the end of our first century of life, if we wed at all.”

“But you are not usual.” Gimli made no more comment, but his tone was thoughtful. He reached to tug at Legolas’s braid, and after a moment Legolas realized Gimli was unmaking it, deft and sure, then carding his fingers through the strands to comb them into tame ripples down his back. He took down the smaller braids over Legolas’s ears, as well, and Legolas sat still, leaning into the touch, trembling when Gimli’s fingers brushed his ears.

“You like that,” Gimli murmured, and touched one with a fingertip, tracing its point with slow care.

Legolas shivered, biting his lip. “Yes,” he said. 

Gimli stroked Legolas’s hair as he finished his pipe. “Tomorrow I will braid you, and you must braid me,” he said. Then he rose, stretching his joints, his back crackling as he eased it with one hand. Legolas watched him, noting a flash of gold, where a ring pierced one of Gimli’s nipples. There were marks upon him, too, intricate designs of ink worked in his skin. He greatly desired to touch and taste them, but he restrained himself for now, awaiting the ripeness of the moment. 

“Come to bed.” Gimli stepped away through the curtain that shielded their balcony, and simply pushed down his breeches, stepping out of them without self-consciousness.

Legolas again followed his example, feeling oddly shy, and went to the bed while Gimli put away his pipe. He lay down and covered himself with the sheet. Though the fire had made the room warm, he welcomed the modesty the bedclothes lent him as he watched Gimli ready his things for morning.

“Tell me now if you have changed your mind, elf.” Gimli turned to him, and he saw his friend was aroused, his shaft hanging heavy between his thighs, skin flushed dark with blood. His own flesh stirred, responding to the sight. There was still plenty of auburn in the thicket that surrounded Gimli’s member, and he wondered at the strange patterns and workings of age as they slowly claimed his friend’s youth. They did nothing to reduce his beauty.

“I will not change my mind so easily,” he said softly, and pulled open the cover to invite Gimli to join him. _Or my heart._

“I am not the dwarf I was,” Gimli said quietly, stepping near. “I can no longer run across Rohan in three days wearing full armor, elf.” The firelight caught in the wiry hair of his arms and legs, gilding him with a glowing halo. “Or at all, armor or no.”

“You are beautiful,” Legolas whispered, reverent. “And your axe can still cleave orc-necks, I am sure, even though it may not swing as swiftly or as long.”

“Hm,” Gimli chuckled. “My axe can yet accomplish much,“ he said, cradling himself in one broad hand, and Legolas drew a sharp breath, lust surging through him. “But it is not orc-necks I would cleave tonight.”

“Then come and claim me,” Legolas said, breathless. “And if you cleave me in twain, then I will gladly die.”

Gimli laughed and knelt over him. “The little death, assuredly—as many of those as I can manage.”

He kissed Legolas, catching his head between strong palms, tipping up his chin with strength that could not be denied. Legolas thought that if Gimli’s strength were diminished now, then it must have been mighty indeed in its youth, but he was well content with what remained, moaning and arching just to feel the power of Gimli’s hands and body restraining him, positioning him as he was wanted.

Then there were kisses—a torrent of them, a sweet and maddening eternity of lips and tongues and teeth—Gimli nipping at him, teasing him, driving him to a madness of desire, until he bucked up helplessly, his body begging without words. 

Sweat slicked between them as the fire sank to coals, and Gimli readied him with gentle, knowing hands, then claimed him, again without undue fuss or uncertainty. His axe showed no weakness or lack of skill in its patient strokes. Nor did he lack endurance, continuing without succumbing even when Legolas moaned and pleaded and shivered apart around him. Then Gimli stilled until Legolas recovered before resuming, slow and patient, bringing him again to the brink before he loosed his full power and had him hard. 

At last Legolas knew what it was to feel Gimli’s strength unleashed, lifting his legs and driving into him with such power he could only cry out and accept the pleasure of their joining, crying out in stunned rapture as the hard strokes wakened sensation deep inside him, where he had expected to feel none. The claiming undid him a second time, making him whimper and sob and clutch at Gimli until he too found his climax, spending deep inside Legolas with a low, satisfied growl.

Legolas found himself with an armful of heavy, weary dwarf when they were done, and kissed Gimli’s face, holding him close as they drowsed together, the firelight sinking to a deep, red glow that made all of Gimli’s hair seem auburn again.

The coverlet had fallen away and Legolas took the chance to explore his friend: he admired the powerful, callused hands, capable of such deft, fine works it made him marvel. Then the short arms, thick with mounds of sturdy muscle, the skin scarred from nicks of blade and burns from sparks at the forge. His chest and back were scarred also, but not badly; Gimli’s skill with a blade had kept him from serious injury, and his skill showed in his whole skin. 

“I had that in training. Dwalin boxed my ears after,” Gimli murmured as Legolas’s fingertip traced one long slice that trailed across his ribs, a white line whose smoothness told that the wound had been shallow. “I deserved it, showing off.”

There was also the scar on his scalp from the orc-blade at Helm’s Deep, and Legolas kissed it tenderly, the worst wound it seemed Gimli had ever taken from a foe. Legolas carded his fingers through the wiry hair on Gimli’s chest, tweaking the golden ring in his nipple and making him purr. He did not ask about the ink-marks; Gimli would tell him when he wished, if they were not too private. 

Gimli’s muscles were still well-defined in his chest despite the softness about his navel; Legolas traced the ridges of his pectorals with his tongue, circling, then tugging at the golden ring, and that made Gimli groan and clasp his head, a small victory he liked well. 

“Your thighs make two of each of mine,” he marveled, and arose to fetch warm water and a cloth. He bathed Gimli with care, so he might touch and kiss when he had finished, properly admiring the thick shaft that had given him such a pleasant wedding night. “And I thought indeed that you might cleave me,” he pressed a laughing kiss to the tip when he had finished. Despite its labors, Gimli’s axe was again ready and eager to do service, and it leaped to press against his lips, blood-warm and taut. 

Gimli’s hand crept behind his head, gentle, asking rather than commanding. Legolas granted its tender request, opening his lips to let Gimli in. Gimli was patient, infinitely gentle, as Legolas learned by trial and error how best to give pleasure with his mouth, how to shield his teeth, how to suck and hum and even relax his throat to let Gimli slide deep. 

He raised his eyes to meet Gimli’s, which gazed back at him, soft and warm; Gimli stroked his cheek with trembling fingers. “So beautiful, with your mouth around me,” Gimli said, and Legolas blushed, proud to hear it. He resumed his efforts, loving the sound of Gimli’s moans. Gimli rocked slightly, unable to hold entirely still for him, the gentle motion reminding Legolas suddenly of wavelets on the sea.

He withdrew, pressing a kiss to the gleaming shaft, and let his hand drift lower, looking a question to Gimli, who parted his thighs in answer, welcoming him.

Remembering how Gimli had readied him, Legolas copied the slow steps, and found the going rather easier than it seemed Gimli had; Gimli was soon ready, and he hooked his knees over Legolas’s arms as Legolas tried to find the angle to enter him. 

Gimli laughed hoarsely, impatient, and handed him pillows; Legolas propped him on them in haste and tried again, finding the angle more convenient.

Gimli’s eyes were steady, drinking him in as he swallowed hard and readied himself, glad he had already come more than once. He sensed it would be a challenge to restrain himself, and he was right. The tight clasp of Gimli’s body was very warm, warmer than his own, and the velvet heat drew him deep with irresistible allure.

He remembered how Gimli had brought him the most pleasure, and again tried to do the same things that had been done to him. Gimli assisted, arching, giving him the welcome direction of an occasional soft word—“Lift. Yes, there. Harder,” until he found a rhythm and let it take him, biting his lip and struggling not to come. Gimli reached and took his own shaft in hand, merciful, and swiftly stroked himself, his body tightening as he neared completion, finally drawing Legolas’s climax from him with ruthless force, coming himself in the next breath, shooting stripes of deep red fire to gleam across his belly.

It was Legolas’s turn to collapse atop him, mouthing in awe at any skin he could reach, unwilling to withdraw until his arousal waned; then gravity and motion did it for him.

Gimli shook his head, looking up at Legolas with the faintest frown upon his face. “You did not tell me you had not done this before,” he grumbled. 

“I said elves only wed once.” Legolas wondered if he had transgressed unforgivably, but it seemed Gimli was not truly angry with him, for he smiled, releasing a deep, sated breath.

“We must talk more of this tomorrow, elf,” he said, his voice a sleepy rumble. Legolas rose to clean himself, and when he returned Gimli was fast asleep, his burly chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Legolas covered him tenderly, slid in to lie at his side, and held him close. 

*****

Legolas rose with the dawn, feeling pleasantly sore, an unusual sensation he hoped would become common. He stretched, then drew the curtains aside to let light in from the balcony, staying far enough in the shadows that none were likely to see him and be offended. His hair fell loose around his face, and the morning breeze played pleasantly on his skin. He thought he would go to the archives later to see if he could find texts on shipbuilding. The men of Númenor had been skilled in the craft, once.

A grunt of complaint came from the bed when the light struck it, making Legolas smile. Gimli rolled to turn his back to the morning sun, which made his skin glow. Fascinated, Legolas could not help himself from going to sit beside him, running his palm over Gimli’s shoulders, feeling the hard contours of muscle and bone sheathed in living velvet. So strong, so very solid... and yet so fleeting. It could not be just, to make mortal lives so brief.

Gimli muttered with false irritation and turned over to face him, squinting against the light, so Legolas moved to shade his eyes. 

“Good morning, _mel_ —” he hesitated. “ _Mellon_ ,” he decided somewhat lamely, and lowered his gaze.

Gimli huffed, this time with a more genuine irritation. “Time to talk.” He rose and threw off the covers, scratching his chest. He went to the wall and pulled the bell-rope, and when a servant tapped at the door, he went to answer, ignoring the man’s nervous failure as he attempted not to notice the two of them were naked. “Bring sausages and bread and eggs for me and whatever fruits or greens you have for the elf,” he instructed. “And pastries,” he added. “Enough for two. And wine.”

“Yes, milord.” He fled, and soon returned with several companions—all of them males, Legolas was amused to observe, but in the meantime he and Gimli had found dressing gowns and put them on, so they were decently clad.

The servants loaded the table until it groaned. Knowing Gimli’s appetite, Legolas did not attempt to stop them. He too was hungry from his unaccustomed labors abed, and took a pastry with apple filling piled at its center, nibbling and waiting for the men to leave.

There was also a flask of coffee, which Gimli attacked with pleasure, stirring in sugar and cream. He would be less grouchy when he had finished it, so Legolas waited to speak, finishing his pastry and choosing a handful of berries as Gimli devastated his share of the meal and more.

“That’s better,” Gimli muttered with a sigh, pushing back his plate and pouring another mug of the strong-scented coffee. “Now, elf. You know not whether to call me friend or lover, and I must confess, I have wondered the same.” He blew on the hot coffee to cool it. “I did not expect you to offer your body to our union after specifying it to be a marriage in name only.”

Legolas felt a blush stain his cheeks. “I suppose I did not expect you to accept the union, even if I offered it in those terms.”

“Your Valar would not be fooled by a sham wedding.”

“I suppose not. But it seemed my best hope, if I would not leave you.” Legolas looked up, daring to smile. “I thought I would bind you to me as closely as I might, and hope the Lady would intervene on your behalf.”

“You feared for our friendship.”

“Yes.” Legolas bowed his head, wondering if even now that fear might not be realized.

“As did I. Yet the chance to be bound to you was one I welcomed.” Gimli cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “And I cannot help but see you have given me your one chance to wed, and your innocence into the bargain. Let us be honest, then, and call this what it is.” He reached to take Legolas’s hand. “A marriage of hearts, not only of names.” His voice was gruff, but his eyes shone, and Legolas’s hand squeezed his tightly. 

“Yes,” Legolas said. He thought his heart might burst with joy.

“We have wasted much time on foolish assumptions,” Gimli said. “I think I will travel with you when you go to build your ship, elf, and return to Aglarond only to pass on my title.” He shook his head. “A pretty pair of fools, the two of us, waiting so long to speak that we have shackled you to an old dwarf, when you might have had the young one!”

“I would have no other,” Legolas assured him, and took the mug from his hand, setting it aside. “But I will have my husband now.” 

Gimli was still grumbling as Legolas led him back to the bed. “When we sail, if your Valar try to deny us, we will shame them with our constancy, if not our wits.”

“We will.” Legolas said, well pleased, and tumbled them onto the bed. 

“This ship of yours will sink before we reach the Bay of Belfalas,” Gimli teased, taking a double handful of elf.

“Hush now and kiss me, _meleth nín_ ,” Legolas said, and silenced him.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Mellon nín_ My friend  
>  _Meleth nín_ : My love


End file.
